I am currently reading a book by Ray Bradbury called Dandelion Wine.  It is one of the most poetic books I have ever read.  Absolutely beautiful, it brings wonder back into the world.  The best thing for me to do for everyone would be to just copy the entire book on here to you could read it, but seeing as that is ridiculous you should just read the short post I am including here and check it out at the library and read it for yourself.  This is definitely a summer book though, so hurry up and get started!

"That's the trouble with your generation," said Grandpa.  "Bill, I'm ashamed of you, you a newspaperman.  All the things in life that were put here to savor, you eliminate.  Save time, save work, you say."  He nudged the grass trays disrespectfully.  "Bill, when you're my age, you'll find out it's the little savors and the little things that count more than big ones.  A walk on a spring morning is better than an eighty-mile ride in a hopped-up car, you know why?  Because it's full of flavors, full of a lot of things growing.  You've time to seek and find.  I know--you're after the broad effect now, and I suppose that's fit and proper.  But for a young man working on a newspaper, you got to look for grapes as well as watermelons.  You greatly admire skeletons and I like fingerprints; well and good.  Right now such things are bothersome to you, and I wonder if it isn't because you've never learned to use them.  If you had your way you'd pass a law to abolish all the little jobs, the little things.  But then you'd leave yourselves nothing to do between the bit jobs and you'd have a devil of a time thinking up things to do so you wouldn't go crazy.  Instead of that, why not let nature show you a few things  Cutting grass and pulling weeds can be a way of life, son."

Bill Forrester was smiling quietly at him.

"I know," said Grandpa, "I talk too much."

"There's no one I'd rather hear."

"Lecture continued, then.  Lilacs on a bush are better than orchids.  And dandelions and devil grass are better!  Why?  Because they bend you over and turn you away from all the people and the town for a little while and sweat you and get you down where you remember you got a nose again.  And when you're all to yourself that way, you're really yourself for a little while; you get to thinking things through, alone.  Gardening is the handiest excuse for  being a philosopher.  Nobody guesses, nobody accuses, nobody knows, but there you are, plato in the peonies, Socrates force-growing his own hemlock.  A man toting a sack of blood manure across his lawn is kin to Atlas letting the world spin easy on his shoulder.  As Samuel Spaulding, Esquire, once said, 'Dig in the earth, delve in the soul.'  Spin those mower blades, Bill, and walk in the spray of the Fountain of Youth.  End of lecture.  Besides, a mess of dandelion greens is good eating once in a while.